Under One Sky

Chapter 17

17

Walking back across the cantilever bridge towards the mainland, her homeland, Cecilie doesn’t look at the peaks of the mountains, anchored reassuringly beyond the water and the houses ahead. She doesn’t try to spot the moving cable car of the Fjellheisen, which will whisper up the mountainside into the small hours, so tourists can see what daytime looks like at midnight, as they try to spot miniature marathon runners from above. She doesn’t look to the stained-glass facade of a white concertina building just beyond the bridge, the most northerly cathedral in the world and an Arctic accordion that plays its tune to lure Cecilie back over the windy strait. She buries her face into her snood, inside the collar of her long grey feather-down coat, and stares at the yellow threading on her black dishevelled boots as each foot propels her forwards. Cecilie thinks about how, in just a few months’ time, she and Espen will turn thirty. He is already organising an elaborate party for the two of them in the largest function room at the i-Scand that Cecilie isn’t particularly excited about but will turn up to and smile.

Thirty .

She thinks of Grethe, her friend since nursery. They went through every first together: first steps, first palm-print paintings, first books, first crushes, first heartbreaks… Cecilie didn’t share these triumphs and tragedies with her mother the way Grethe told Mette everything. Cecilie would turn to her harp, or get lost in books: Ibsen, Hamsun, Austen and Woolf… She didn’t have as many friends as Espen or Grethe had, because she was mostly happy in her own world; she had Peer Gynt, Emma Woodhouse and Mrs Dalloway for company. But there was no one like Grethe when Cecilie wanted someone to belt out ‘She’s Like the Wind’ with.

Both girls went to the Arctic University; Grethe studied tourism and hospitality alongside Espen; Cecilie studied literature. Soon after graduating, Grethe’s father, Tore, died of a heart attack as he was cleaning up the Hjornekafé one night after closing. His first career, pulling twelve-hour shifts on an oil rig, had taken its toll on his body, so he opted for a quiet life running a quiet cafe, until he died young at forty-nine. His devastated daughter put her inheritance money to good use and set up a business, deciding that an ice cream parlour could work in the Arctic. She had learned everything she needed to know about running a small business, not from her degree, but from her parents and their moderate success with the Hjornekafé. All Grethe needed to do was learn to make ice cream. Optimistic and practical as she was, she packed a bag and hopped on a flight to Florence, where she spent a month immersing herself in the art of gelato.

Grethe’s Iskrembar was a huge success, despite the temperature rarely reaching fourteen degrees, even in high summer. But Grethe was the toast of Troms?. Tore’s girl had grown a business from scratch, she had brought something new to the town, and she had learned every stage of the process herself: from engineering the equipment to learning how to make the perfect ice cream base, then churning it and crafting it into delicious new flavours (with a little help along the way from an immigrant taste tester).

‘Why don’t you start a business, Cecilie? If you come up with a good business plan, I’ll fund you,’ Karin encouraged her when they were strolling over the bridge arm in arm en route to Grethe’s grand opening. The conversation resonated with Cecilie. Not because of the pressure she felt to be something more than just a librarian or just a waitress, but because Mamma rarely walked anywhere. There was always a driver ringing on the doorbell to take her mother to the airport, or a car whisking her from one appointment to the next. Karin didn’t drive, yet it was so unusual for her to walk. That evening, Cecilie pulled her mother’s arm into her ribs for comfort, and her whimsical way meant she wasn’t upset by the suggestion that she too should start a business. She was just happy to be walking arm in arm with her mother; happy for Grethe’s success.

At twenty-six, Grethe met Abdi, a Somali immigrant fisherman, whose family had escaped war and ended up in the Arctic. Abdi had found work on the Hurtigruten, the expedition ship that sails up and down the Fjordland, netting the night’s catch of the day for the tourists on board and stopping for a sundae whenever he was in town. Grethe was instantly taken with Abdi the day he walked into the Iskrembar in search of something to remind him of home. His favourite ice cream in the world came from a parlour in Mogadishu, where Italian rule had seen Neapolitan gelato reach the horn of Africa.

When Abdi stumbled across ice cream in the Arctic Circle, he was smitten with the woman behind the counter. Her eyes were bright blue and sparkling, and wisps of blonde hair poked out from beneath a colourful headscarf tied in a bow at the front, reminiscent of a fabric he would see back home. He had asked to try one tiny scoop of each flavour, on a plate, not a cone, so he could really find out which was his favourite – while also prolonging their encounter. He said he’d pay for it, of course, but Grethe was too speechless to charge him, so she leaned on the counter and watched him eat. She had never seen anyone with such beautiful creamy skin before. She wanted to lick her finger and touch his face with it, the way she would dip a digit into the ice cream mix to check its consistency. Abdi’s skin was just right. When he finished, he looked up at Grethe, still watching him, her chin resting on her palm, and said he liked the yellowy orange one best because he had never tasted anything like it in the world.

‘Is it a fruit?’ he asked.

‘Cloudberry. Have you never tasted it?’

Abdi smiled.

Before he left, he recommended to Grethe that she put cardamom in her vanilla ice cream and cloves in her chocolate, and Grethe nodded and smiled, knowing he would be back.

Soon, Abdi was no longer a stranger, and his spice advice turned out to be brilliant; his cardamom and clove-infused classics created big sellers.

Creating something out of heartache. Taking a chance on a business. Taking a chance on love. Both girls were fatherless, but Grethe’s loss prompted another of her gutsy moves. Cecilie had never done anything with her inheritance fund; she’d never taken a risk in her life, nor dared to travel.

As the cathedral stands in full view before her, Cecilie knows that having walked the entire length of the bridge, she has walked past the point where her father was last seen, and she wishes she knew where it was.

At the end of the bridge, she turns right, walking past nervous runners warming up their legs as they make their way to the start line in the hub on the island over the bridge. The pavements are clear of snow, and will be for the next few months before winter’s white ink starts to hug the harbour. Although looking up at the green mountain to the tiny cafe terrace at the top, Cecilie can see small pools of snow dotted down the mountainside like spilt milk.

No use crying, Cecilie thinks as she edges left up a quiet side road to her house. She steps up onto the veranda with its waist-height white picket fence and elaborate lattice-front fascia and puts her key in the front door.

Home.

Home is quiet. Home is clean.

Home is precisely how Cecilie left it this afternoon when she decided to wander into town to see how Grethe was bumping along.

Cecilie puts her keys in a white oval bowl, takes off her Dr Martens and throws her coat onto a row of pegs in the airy hallway. She walks through a set of French doors to the living room.

Her harp is in the way, but that doesn’t matter because Karin won’t be back until tomorrow lunchtime, so she walks around it to turn the television on. Cecilie flicks through the channels, unmoved by the World Cup or wannabes auditioning for Stjernekamp . She goes back to the football match and mutes it.

When are Mexico playing? Where will he watch it?

Cecilie perches on the solid stripped-back wood of the coffee table her mother bought in Warsaw, sweeps her fringe behind one ear, and plants her bare feet into the thick sheepskin rug. She tilts her harp back onto her shoulder and plucks. So, ro, lillemann… pops into her head for the first time since that day – his wedding day. She’d banished it from baby rhyme-time sessions since then, and she banishes it again by going on a journey across the strings, dancing her gnarly fingertips along the timeline of her past.

It was a strange choice of instrument for a nineties kid with a penchant for eighties electronica, but their mother was gifted a harp from her Russian counterpart on a visit from Moscow, and for months it sat in a huge case in the unused dining room at the front of the house.

‘Bloody thing!’ Karin would say if she stubbed a recently polished toe on the hard external case. Espen didn’t ever give the case a second glance; he was always too busy, even when he was a child. But one day, when Cecilie was thirteen and her imagination was running riot, she opened the box, plucked a string, and the noise that tickled back at her made her realise it could be the perfect soundtrack to the adventures in her head.

Cecilie and Espen’s music teacher, handsome Mr Lind, told Cecilie, long before she knew him as Jonas, that the harp was a gift in more ways than their family could imagine, and he arranged for a teacher to come into school so Cecilie could have lessons. Soon she was playing everything from Delibes’s ‘Flower Duet’ to Kylie’s ‘Can’t Get You Out of My Head’, and she loved how the music set her free when she played.

But this sombre Saturday night, alone in her mother’s sprawling house, despite her argument with Espen, Cecilie doesn’t feel sad striding her harp. She strikes up the plinky-plonky chords of Hans Zimmer, composed for a marimba, and dances around the room without even moving her bottom from the coffee table’s edge. Her heart swells, her breath intensifies, her feet push down on the pedals, and she feels nothing but goodwill, nothing but a desire to speak to the man she loves.

You’re so cool.

She looks up at the large clock on the wall and counts back seven, which is harder to do when all your fingers are in use. Striding the strings, she continues, her head moving, then cuts the music short as she stands abruptly and pads across the room, through the French doors, to her coat hanging by the front door, and takes her phone out of her pocket.

Cecilie hovers her chapped thumb over the home button and scrolls through people she recently messaged. She doesn’t message many people: Grethe, Morten, Espen, maybe Fredrik at the library or Henrik in the cafe if either of them is running late and needs to let the other know. A short scroll down and Hector Herrera’s beautiful face sits in a tiny circle on the left. In the photo, he is laughing and looking to a person just beyond the camera, not directly into the lens. His eyes shine. His skin is warm and his cheeks are flushed with pink patches of elation and inebriation. His bow lips are sealed as if they are primed to kiss. Cecilie strokes the circle and opens up their last exchange, three months ago.

She doesn’t read the conversation back. It’s already etched into her eyelids when she tries to sleep at night.

Her harp-worn thumb, with a delicate silver ring at the base of it, hovers over the keypad.

Cecilie is no longer Arctic Fox, and Hector isn’t I Feel You. They dropped those monikers years ago with familiarity and tech upgrades, and replaced playful names with playful pictures, faces in circles, and Hector Herrera is now just Hector in her phone. Cecilie’s picture is impish and playful; her eyes are crossed and she’s sticking her tongue out. Her heart-shaped face fills the photo. Her dreadlocks aren’t visible in the picture; Hector wouldn’t know she’s cut them off anyway.

I can’t not have him in my life.

Hei stranger, how are you ?

Send.

Two blue ticks indicate Hector Herrera received and read her message instantly. It is lunchtime in Mexico.

An ellipsis dances a Mexican wave as frantically as their hearts beat and Cecilie knows he is replying right now.

Hola, guapa! How are you? I miss you!

I miss you.

OK thanks. Working hard. You at the cafe ahorita?

Nei. At home. A rare night off…

Cecilie pauses and decides to make herself sound more interesting.

He’ll never know anyway.

I’ve taken a third job, the one at my brother’s hotel. Busy busy.

Wow, what about our no-uniform pact, comadre?

Hector adds an emoji of a fist in solidarity.

Things change! Espen talked me round. I work in the bar there now, I’m a mixologist.

Mixolo… qué?

I make drinks!

Like Tom Cruise?

Huh?

Cóctel.

Ah, yes just like that. I shake my little silver thing like a demon!

Cecilie adds an emoji of a Martini, followed by one of a cocktail she imagines she might conjure in her imaginary job.

Jajajaja. I get to sleep with the clientele like Tom Cruise too.

Cecilie adds a winking face.

There is a pause. Cecilie wonders why the hell she’s lying.

What is she trying to achieve?

He married her. Is she there right now?

Hector sends a sad face and Cecilie slumps back into the low rectangular sofa with a sigh. She puts her feet on the wooden table and her eyes glaze over while she stares at the silent TV in front of her. The footballers become a blur.

Cecilie rises until she is in a corner between the ceiling and the wall of a high-rise apartment in a low-rise town, looking down at Hector on his phone as he watches the very same football match. She can only see the top of his head and so desperately wants to capture the flash of his eyes, but he’s looking down at his phone. She looks around the room, and as she hovers from up high, willing Hector to look up, she can’t tell if his wife is sitting on the armchair next to the sofa. It’s all such a blur. Yes, that’s right. Perhaps she’s in the bathroom. Is there a figure of a woman in the kitchen making a torta ?

The world’s highest paid footballer curves the ball beautifully and the commentator’s Spanish roar snaps Cecilie back into the muted silence of her living room. She looks up at the screen and sees a man elated, charging towards a crowd in triumph.

So, how’s married life?

He loves her .

Good thanks, same as before.

Hector wonders why the hell he’s lying. And changes the subject.

Hey, I’ve been asked to illustrate a children’s book!

Wow, that’s amazing!

Yeah, I met this author in Mexico City and she wants me to illustrate her books, and the publisher is really cool… I’m working really hard on it.

Wow. I’m so happy for you! That’s wonderful, well done. What’s the book?

It’s about a little panda cub called Pablito, he’s really cute. He gets into lots of adventures and scrapes while he looks for a mate. I’m doing loads of drawings now, not going out chupando any more…

His wife must be an inspiration.

Married life suits you.

Why did I lie about the job? He has always been honest with me.

Something like that.

Well I’m really happy for you, Hector, congratulations.

This hurts too much.

Gracias. It made me happy. Hey you wanna FaceTime? It would be great to see you. That would make me really happy. And I could show you Pablito.

Oh no, it’s OK. I was just checking in really.

You said you weren’t going to…

Cecilie doesn’t respond.

But I’m glad you did… It was good to see your crazy face pop up on my phone.

Cecilie sends a crazy face emoji.

Look, Hector, I have to go, I’m working a late shift. Loads of tourists in town. Better get over to the hotel.

You said you had a night off.

Shit.

I did. Well. Afternoon off anyway. I said I’d do a late. Those cocktails don’t shake themselves you know!

What’s your uniform like? Traidora! Bleurgh. Tell me, I want to know.

Cecilie pauses .

Shit, what do Solveig and Camilla wear?

She remembers.

White blouse. Black miniskirt. Black tights. Not very me.

Sounds cool. As long as there’s no tie though, right? Remember our no-tie clause?

No tie.

Hector sends a wink face.

Cecilie sends a sad face as her own face gets hot.

This was a bad idea.

I have to go now. Get across the bridge.

Ceci nooo! We’ll talk later yeah?

Maybe.

It hurts too much.

Don’t say farvel. I hated farvel.

Cecilie tries to swallow but her mouth is dry.

I hated it too.

Hasta luego then x.

And with his kiss, Cecilie kills the conversation and sends her phone to sleep.

She didn’t tell Hector that she is sitting alone in a sprawling family home on a Saturday night.

Hector didn’t tell Cecilie that Pilar, who got fired from her job, went out with her friend Xochitl at 11.30p.m. last night and hasn’t been seen since.